Sins of the Father
by asteroidbuckle
Summary: Because if it wasn’t for that, Sammy wouldn’t be here right now, in this particular place, searching for normal beneath a layer of chaos and finding it doesn’t exist. Gen, with hints of John/OFC & Sam/OFC.


**Title:** Sins of the Father  
**Author:** GatorGrrrl  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Pairing:** None (hints of John/OFC & Sam/OFC)  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Word Count:** 6,284  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters. No profit being made, no offense intended.  
**Spoilers:** None. Pre-series.  
**Notes/Warnings:** bad words, implied sexual situations

**Summary:** Because if it wasn't for that, Sammy wouldn't be here right now, in this particular place, searching for normal beneath a layer of chaos and finding it doesn't exist.

**A/N:** This is the result of me thinking a little too much about John Winchester and how his actions affect his sons. Told from Dean's POV. Also, the town is real; the rest I made up. Enjoy!

***

**Sins of the Father**

Dean hates the place immediately.

Arcadia, Louisiana. Famous for being the place where Bonnie and Clyde were killed, Sam informs him, it's the latest in a string of small towns Dad has decided to flop in for a while—a while being longer than a couple weeks, at least. And to show his sons that he means what he says, he pays six months' rent in advance on a pre-furnished shithole of a house on the edge of town.

He left three days ago, tracking a lead five towns over, and Dean quickly tires of staring at the same four walls. So he goes into town to explore a little, just to get out of the house, leaving Sam with his nose buried in a book. Of course, he doesn't find much beyond what he's already seen over the last couple weeks: a grocery store, a couple family restaurants, a hardware store, a drug store, an antiques shop, and a rundown bar called The Ragin' Cajun. Typical small town excitement. But it's almost eleven now and he's on his way back to the house (not _home_; he doesn't have one of those), a six-pack of orange Crush tucked under his arm. He hears the sound of female laughter and the scrape of hard soles on gravel and is nearly knocked over by a couple emerging clumsily from the alley. He locks eyes with the woman—blonde and attractive, fortyish, lipstick slightly smeared as she fumbles with the buttons of her blouse—and starts to smile.

But then: "Dean."

Dean's heart stops at the sound of his name, spoken in a voice he knows almost better than his own. He snaps his eyes to his left, sees his father staring back at him, eyes as stern and face as calm as always, as if he hasn't just been caught by his own son in the midst of a post coital wardrobe readjustment. His hair's mussed on one side and he drags his thumb underneath his bottom lip, wiping away a smudge of lipstick. "What are you doing here?" he asks.

A hard knot of anger burns in Dean's belly as he meets his dad's eyes. "I'd ask you the same thing, but…" He lets the words trail off as he flicks his eyes from Dad to the woman and back.

"John?" the woman asks and the sound of his father's name spoken in her voice makes Dean grit his teeth. "Who is—"

"Dean," Dean says, not looking at her. Instead, he holds his dad's gaze and wills himself to keep his voice calm. "His son." Dad just looks at him and Dean finally drags his eyes to the woman, who scans him up and down like he's next on her to-do list. "And you are?"

She smiles. "Laura," she says simply, and holds out her hand.

Dean looks at it, then at her face, and something sharp clicks into place inside his skull.

He's heard the stories; it's a small town, after all. Gossip is a major export—especially to strangers who haven't heard it yet. It seems Laura Peavy, wife of Sheriff Jack Peavy, has an interesting hobby: dropping her panties for every Tom, Dick, and Harry with a heartbeat.

Including John Winchester.

Dean laughs harshly as he looks back at his dad. "Congratulations, Dad," he says, feeling the burn of satisfaction on his tongue. "You just got fucked by the sheriff's wife."

A muscle twitches in Dad's cheek. "I don't have to explain myself to you," he says evenly, jutting out his chin a little.

Dean smiles coldly. "Of course not," he says. "Why start now?" He gives Laura one last look, then pushes past them.

A hand closes around his arm. "Dean—"

Dean jerks his arm away; the six-pack slips from his grasp, glass and orange soda exploding at his feet. "Don't touch me, you fucking hypocrite," he spits, savoring the flare of surprise in his dad's eyes. Dean can't remember ever speaking to him like that before—at least not to his face. "All your talk about responsibility. All that shit you lecture me about over and over until I just want to scream." His hands are trembling and he bends down, picks up the two bottles of soda that managed to survive, and wipes them off on his jeans. "Well, I hope you used a rubber, Dad. 'Cause I hear she gets around." Then he squeezes a bottle in each hand and turns and walks away.

Sam's sitting on the ratty sofa, his feet propped on the coffee table, when Dean walks in the door.

"Hey," Sam says as he tilts his head back to look at Dean upside down over the back of the sofa.

Dean is still angry, but it's more of a dull buzz beneath his skin now instead of a sharp knife-edge inside his chest. When he says "Hey" back, his voice is calm. He sinks down onto the sofa next to Sam. Sam lifts his head to look sideways at him.

Fishing the bottles of soda out of his pockets, he offers them to his brother. "Here," he says. "I got these for you."

Sam eyes the bottles, his eyebrows rising. "Dude! My favorite." He takes one bottle and nudges Dean's hand, urging him to keep the other one for himself. He smiles as he twists the cap off his bottle and tilts it to his lips.

Dean watches Sam's Adam's apple bob in his throat as he drinks. "Yeah," he says, smiling a little. "I know."

Sam finishes the entire bottle in one long swallow, then lowers it, murmuring a satisfied, "Ahhh." Then he burps, turning to give Dean a goofy grin. "Anything interesting going on in town?" he asks.

Dean opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. He thinks about Dad. About the lipstick on his mouth and the mixed scents of sweat and perfume. About the look in his eyes when Dean finally talked back to him for once. Then he thinks about all the fights between Dad and Sam and how Sam always seems to be looking for that one excuse to hate Dad completely, that one thing that he can point to and say, _This. This is something I can never forgive you for._

"Nah," he finally says. "Boring as usual."

"I figured as much," Sam says. "Nothing interesting ever goes on here."

*

When Sam starts to mention the name Jenny Peavy more and more in conversation, Dean doesn't say anything. He tells himself there aren't a whole lot of girls to choose from in this town, so it doesn't mean anything that she just happens to be the daughter of the woman Dad's fucking. He dismisses the whole thing as Sammy's first crush and lets it go at that, not even bothering to mention it to Dad when he asks about Sam. Of course, things between he and Dad haven't exactly been curl-up-on-the-couch-with-a-cup-of-cocoa-and-tell-me-about-your-day, lately, either.

Besides, Sam is Dean's business.

*

Seeing his little brother with his tongue in Jenny Peavy's mouth fills Dean with a feeling that's equal parts my-eyes-are-bleeding horror and way-to-go-kid brotherly pride. Sam and Jenny are on Sam's bed, in Sam and Dean's room. Jenny's small hands are in Sam's hair and her knee is drawn up next to Sam's hip, and when Sam starts to push his hand under Jenny's shirt, Dean clears his throat. Loudly.

The two lovebirds break apart with lightning speed, smoothing their clothes and dragging their hands across their lips. Sam's eyes are huge until he realizes it's Dean in the doorway and not Dad; then he relaxes a little, but not completely, and Dean can tell he's waiting for Dean to say something.

Which, of course, he does. After all, it's his job to make Sam squirm. "Give the girl back her tonsils, Sammy. She might still need them." He smiles a little at the blush creeping above Sam's collar and the way Sam's lips press together into a thin line. Then he looks at Jenny, hanging on to his smile with effort.

She's a pretty girl, with dark blonde hair and big blue eyes and a tiny heart-shaped mouth. She reminds Dean of one of those dolls whose eyes close when you tilt its head back. Only dolls don't smile the way she's doing now—like she knows something the rest of the world doesn't. "Leave Sam alone," she says, licking her bottom lip. "You're just jealous."

Dean leans against the doorframe, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I like girls who are old enough to vote," he says. He knows he shouldn't say what's on the tip of his tongue, but he does anyway. "By the way, how's your mom?" He feels his smile twist into a smirk.

Jenny's eyes narrow and she glares at him for a moment before standing up. Dean watches in silence as she tugs at the hem of her snug white t-shirt, then bends to kiss Sam slowly, dragging the tip of her tongue across his lips as she straightens. "Bye, Sam," she says softly, running her fingers through the fringe of his bangs. "Call me later."

"I will," Sam says, licking her taste from his lips, his eyes following her as she pushes past Dean without even a backwards glance.

Dean watches her until she disappears around the corner, then turns to look at Sam when he hears the front door slam shut.

Sam glares at him as he stands up. At sixteen, he's already taller than Dean. "What did you do that for?"

"Do what?" Dean asks, pushing away from the doorframe and walking over to his bed.

"You _know_ what, Dean," Sam says. "Why'd you make her leave?"

"I didn't _make_ her leave, Sam," Dean says over his shoulder. "I didn't even touch her."

"You made her mad," Sam says, tipping his head to the side a little. "Why'd you ask her about her mom like that?"

Silently cursing his little brother's intuitiveness, Dean crouches down beside his bed. "I was just being polite," he says.

"No you weren't, Dean," Sam says and Dean knows without looking that Sam has his arms crossed over his chest. "I could tell."

"Sam, just drop it, alright?" Dean says, sliding his hand beneath his mattress. "It doesn't matter." He can hear Sam move behind him, can hear the words crowding behind his brother's eyes even if he doesn't say them, and he stands up, holding his .45 securely in his right hand as he turns to face Sam.

"Dean—" Sam begins, searching Dean's eyes. Then he sighs. "I really like her, you know," he says softly.

Dean rubs his thumb across the gun's safety. "I know, Sammy," he says. But what he thinks is: _Like mother, like daughter._

*

Dad comes home, sinks into the chair across from Dean at the kitchen table, and opens his journal. He smells like cigarettes and sex and secrets.

Dean looks up from the crossword puzzle he's been pretending to work on and stares at his dad across the table. "Do anything interesting?" he asks, keeping his face impassive.

Dad lifts his eyes from his journal and meets Dean's gaze. "I've been trying to follow up those leads Stan gave us," he says. A frown tugs on the corners of his mouth. "Haven't gotten very far, though." His eyes wander off into the distance for a moment before he turns them back to the journal lying open on the table in front of him.

"Huh," Dean says. "That's too bad. Better luck tomorrow night."

Dad looks up again. "What?"

"I said I'm sure you'll have better luck tomorrow night," Dean says, squeezing the pen in his fingers. "You _are_ going out again tomorrow, aren't you?"

A shadow passes behind Dad's eyes. "Yes," he says. "Probably."

"Well then," Dean says, forcing himself to look down at the crossword puzzle. "Good luck."

"Dean—"

"What's a nine-letter word for 'dishonesty'?" Dean interrupts. He's been waiting for this moment, staring at this clue for the last thirty minutes, picturing the look in Dad's eyes when he asks him about it. Only now, he can't look up. And he feels stupid, which makes him angry. There's a long silence, then the crackle of well-worn paper as the journal page Dad was turning flips into place. Then Dad's chair scrapes along the linoleum, his shadow falling across the table as he stands. Then other sounds: footsteps; the refrigerator door opening and closing; the hiss and pop of two bottle caps being twisted off. A couple seconds later, a cold bottle of beer is set down in front of him.

Dean stares at it for a moment, then finally looks up. He sees his dad looking at him as he takes a long pull from his own bottle. Swallowing, Dad holds his gaze. Then he says, "Mendacity."

Dean wrinkles his brow.

"A nine-letter word for 'dishonesty'," Dad says. Then he closes his journal and picks it up, walking out of the kitchen.

*

Dean wants to tease him, wants to say something smart that would make Sam's ears turn red, that would make the kid either try to punch him or stomp off and stew somewhere. But he doesn't.

Because this is different. And the fact that Sam came to him and not Dad keeps Dean's tongue in line.

"Sam," Dean says, casting his brother a look out of the corner of his eye before staring out into the front yard. "Are you sure about this girl?"

They're sitting on the front steps—decrepit and wooden, Dean's certain they'll collapse at any moment—and Sam shifts next to him, his shoulder brushing against Dean's. "I think…" he says, then sighs. "I think I love her."

Dean closes his eyes briefly. "Sam—"

"I know you probably think I'm too young to know for sure, but—"

"No, Sammy," Dean interrupts, opening his eyes to look over at his brother. "That's not it. If you say you love her, I believe you. It's just…" He sighs, his eyes searching Sam's for the slightest hint of uncertainty. But there isn't any.

"What?" Sam asks him, his knee bumping Dean's.

"Sam, this place—" Dean gestures vaguely towards the yard, the road, the town beyond. "It's not permanent. You know that, right?"

Something flickers in Sam's eyes, something fragile and sad, and Dean feels pinpricks of anger beneath his skin. At Dad. At their lives. At the world. But then the sadness in Sam's eyes is replaced by a resoluteness that makes Dean's throat ache. "I know," Sam says, nodding. "But it doesn't change how I feel."

Dean nods slowly, turning to look back out towards the street. The Impala's parked in the driveway, coated with dust and waiting. Just drive away, he thinks. Just get in the car, the two of them, and drive the fuck away. Away from here. Away from Dad. Away from all the shit that causes Sam to look at him the way he does sometimes—like he's waiting for Dean to rescue him from this life he doesn't want. It would be so easy.

Only it wouldn't be. Dean will never leave Dad because Dad needs him. Needs them both, even if Sam doesn't see it. Even if Dad will never admit it. And Dean knows his role; he's known it since he was four years old.

He smiles then and looks at Sam. It's time for the teasing. "I still don't see why you can't get 'em yourself, Sammy. I mean, it's not like you have to be eighteen or anything."

Sam's lips quirk into an awkward smile even as a blush creeps up his neck. "I know that," he says. "It's just…if I go in there, Mrs. Watson's gonna tell the whole town."

"Oh, I see," Dean says, grinning. "So it's okay if Mrs. Watson thinks _I'm_ a slut. Is that it?"

"Yeah," Sam says, then backtracks, his eyes getting big. "I-I mean, no. I mean..." He sighs in frustration, then smiles. "I'm sure she already thinks that, anyway."

Dean bumps Sam's shoulder. "Excuse me? I'll have you know that since we've been here, I've lived a cleaner life than Pastor Jim."

Sam laughs. "Uh-huh. Sure." Then his face grows serious again. "Come on, Dean. Please."

Dean meets his eyes, huffing a breath as he shakes his head. "Alright, alright," he says, then stands. He looks down at his brother, then grins, nudging Sam's knee with his foot. "But I don't think they make 'em extra small."

Sam tackles him to the ground before he can get away.

*

Mrs. Watson is seventy-five if she's a day, with gray hair carefully sculpted into a shape that reminds Dean of one of those old leather football helmets. It didn't take long to discover that of all the town busybodies, she's the busiest. So when he walks into Peabody's Drugs, he isn't the least surprised to see her eyes narrow a little as she assesses him over her bifocals.

"Hello, Mrs. Watson," he says politely, smiling at her. "How are you today?"

"Just fine, young man, just fine." She nods at him and the movement jiggles the silver chain attached to her glasses. "How are you?"

He walks up to her and lays his hands flat on the counter. "Well," he says, looking surreptitiously to each side as he leans in. "I was hoping you could help me." He suppresses a smile.

Mrs. Watson, on cue, leans in a little, too, lowering her glasses to her chest. Her eyes are blue and rheumy, like puddles. "Well, I'll certainly try. What seems to be the problem?"

Dean leans in a little more, catches the faint scents of Ben Gay, baby powder, and old lady. "It's kinda personal," he says.

Mrs. Watson smiles. "You can tell me," she says. "Whatever it is won't go past this counter."

Yeah, right. But Dean nods seriously. "Well, I'm kinda in need of some…er…protection," he says softly, almost right into her ear.

Mrs. Watson's brow crinkles and she pulls back a little, looking Dean directly in the eye. She opens her mouth to speak, but Dean cuts her off, going in for the kill. "_You_ know," he says. "Rubbers." He whispers this last word as he raises his eyebrows at her.

Her expression turns a bit sour as she purses her lips, lifting her glasses once again to place them on the tip of her nose. She smoothes her hands down the front of her blouse and quietly clears her throat. "Prophylactics," she says primly, "are on aisle three."

Dean winks at her. "Thank you," he says, smiling.

She rings him up without looking at him, holding the box of Lifestyles carefully between her forefinger and thumb as she slips it quickly into a small paper bag. Dean hands her a twenty and takes the bag. He opens it and peers inside, then looks up at her. "You know, I didn't see any colored ones on the shelf. D'ya think you'll get some in any time soon?" He leans across the counter. "Just between you and me," he whispers, "they make me feel exotic."

Mrs. Watson avoids his eyes, her gnarled fingers toying with the edge of the open cash drawer. Then she carefully gathers his change and pushes the drawer shut. When she hands him the money, he can see a tiny smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

"Have a nice day, Mrs. Watson," Dean says, shoving the change in his pocket. "Tell Mr. Watson I said hello."

*

Laura Peavy's coming out of the antiques shop two doors down when Dean steps out onto the sidewalk. They make eye contact. She's in the direction he needs to go, but he goes the other way to avoid her. He hears the click-clack of high heels on the sidewalk behind him, but doesn't stop.

"Dean."

Dean grits his teeth and keeps walking.

"Dean, please," she says. "Wait."

Dean stops. Turns around and sees his father's lover standing there, looking back at him with eyes he can now see are blue. She's beautiful, he acknowledges, in a careful sort of way, even if she is a little over-painted for his personal taste. In the light, he can see she wears her years in the lines around her eyes.

Of all the things he expects her to say, she says this instead: "I know my daughter is seeing your brother."

Dean's fingers close around the paper bag in his hand—the one holding the condoms Sam asked him to buy so he can lose his virginity to this woman's daughter. "And I know you're fucking my dad," he says, tasting the bitterness of his anger.

Laura bristles at the words, straightening her posture a little. She still only comes up to Dean's chin. "John is a grown man, Dean," she says. "He can make his own decisions."

Dean chews at the inside of his bottom lip. "Yeah, well, so can I," he says. "Maybe I'll decide to tell your husband."

She laughs then and Dean hates her a little more. "Go ahead," she says. "My husband and I have an understanding."

Dean smiles coldly. "And what about Jenny? Do you and her have the same understanding?"

Laura's smug expression falters and Dean knows he's found her weak spot. "Guess not," he says, tilting his head to the side. "She probably wouldn't _understand_ that Mommy's banging her boyfriend's dad."

"My daughter," Laura says through her teeth, "is _my_ business."

"And Sam is mine." Dean leans in closer, smells the same perfume he smells periodically on his dad. "I can't protect my father from the likes of you. If he gets hurt, that's his own goddamn fault. But Sam is just a kid. And for some reason, he's chosen to give his heart to your daughter. But let me just warn you," he says, his voice low and even. "If she hurts him in any way, I'm blaming _you_." He holds her gaze for a long moment, his pulse throbbing in his throat, then pushes past her and walks away.

*

Sam looks up from the magazine in his lap when Dean walks into their bedroom. His eyes immediately fall to the paper bag in Dean's hand, then back up to Dean's face. Sitting up, he tosses the magazine aside as he throws his long legs over the side of his bed and tears off his headphones. "Is that—"

He can't quite bring himself to say the rest and Dean cracks a smile. "Yeah," he says, tossing the bag at Sam. He watches Sam catch it, then carefully unroll the top and peer inside. "I hope you're happy," Dean continues as Sam smiles a little. "Because now Mrs. Watson thinks I'm a freak."

Sam looks up at him. "That's because you _are_ a freak, Dean."

"Yeah, well," Dean says. "So are you." He grins. "And a virgin."

Sam gives him a sheepish smile. "Not after tomorrow night."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Oh, Sammy," he says, sinking down onto his bed. "Don't tell me you've got it all planned out."

Sam shrugs, his smile slipping a little. "What's wrong with that?"

Dean shakes his head. "Nothing," he says. "It's just…never mind." He lays back on his bed, crossing his ankles and folding his arms behind his head, staring up at the ceiling.

"What, Dean?"

Dean turns his head to look at Sam. His brother is looking back at him expectantly. "Sammy," he says. "Just…don't expect too much, okay? I mean, it's only your first time."

Sam swallows, nodding. He looks down at his hands, and the paper bag crinkles in his grip. Then Sam shakes the bag and looks back up, a dimply grin on his face. "Yeah, but I've got twelve chances to get it right."

Dean rolls his eyes again, snagging his pillow from beneath his head and throwing it across the room at Sam. "You're such a friggin' retard," he says.

Sam bats it away easily, then grabs his own pillow and throws it at Dean. It bounces harmlessly off Dean's chest. "Yeah," Sam says. "But you love me anyway."

It's something Sam says to him a lot, something he's said since he was little, and Dean smiles at the familiarity of it, offering the proper response. "Only 'cause I have to," he says.

The moment passes, and Dean hugs Sam's pillow to his chest, staring back at the ceiling. He hears the crinkle of the paper bag again, then the slide of the dresser drawer. The springs in Sam's mattress protest as his brother settles down.

Then there's silence. A few minutes later, Sam says softly, "Hey, Dean."

"Hmm?"

"Thank you."

Dean's throat tightens and he blinks at the ceiling. "What are awesome older brothers for?"

*

Dean closes his right eye and takes careful aim. He rubs his finger across the trigger once, twice, three times, then gently squeezes it. The gun kicks a little, but he controls it easily, and the empty bottle thirty yards away shatters. He repeats the process until the entire row is reduced to shards, then lowers the gun.

"Damn, son," Dad says behind him, trying for light. "Who were you picturing just then?"

Dean keeps his face forward for a moment, squinting into the setting sun. Then he turns to look at his dad, who's got one haunch propped on the hood of the car, a wry half-grin on his face. "You sure you want me to answer that?" Dean asks, meeting Dad's eyes. It wasn't Dad he was picturing, but he wants him to think so.

The half-grin slips away. "Alright, Dean," Dad says. "That's enough."

"Enough what?" Dean releases the clip, looks at it, then slams it back in.

"Enough of your goddamn attitude," Dad says, standing up. "I know you have a problem with me seeing Laura—"

"I have a problem with you _fucking_ her," Dean clarifies.

"Watch your language, son," Dad says to him, like he's fucking five years old.

Dean laughs, his thumb toying with the safety. "Or what? You'll wash my mouth out with soap?"

"Dean—"

"She's married, Dad."

"I know."

"And that doesn't bother you." It's not a question.

Dad looks at him and Dean sees something unsettled in his eyes. "I don't know how to explain it to you so you'd understand."

"Does she know about Mom?" Dean asks, because he doesn't want to understand. He just wants to be angry.

Dad huffs a little breath, like he's just been punched. "What?" he asks.

"Does your dead wife ever come up in conversation?" Dean asks deliberately, watching his father's face change. "I mean, you still wear your wedding ring. She must've noticed it, even if she doesn't give a shit." He feels his mouth curve into a cold smile. "Or do you take it off to fuck her?"

The slap surprises more than hurts, and Dean staggers a step backward, his eyes watering. He blinks at his dad, who's wearing a look of stunned shock.

"Oh, God, Dean," Dad says hoarsely. "I…I'm sorry."

Dean can still feel the sting of his dad's hand blooming on his cheek, but he refuses to acknowledge it, refuses to touch his fingers to it. Dad takes a step towards him, but Dean takes a step back.

"Sam's seeing her daughter," he says.

Dad wrinkles his forehead. "Jenny?"

Dean's not surprised he doesn't know. "He says he loves her." It feels a little like he's betraying a trust, but Dad needs to know there's a bigger picture at stake.

Dad's eyes focus on Dean, then drift off into the distance. "Shit," he mutters.

"If he finds out…" Dean doesn't finish, just lets the thought fade, and watches as his dad slowly nods.

*

"Dean, you awake?"

Dean, who's been staring at the ceiling for the last half hour, trying to fall asleep, says, "Yeah."

It's been two days since The Big Night and Sam's been unusually quiet. Dean's been wanting to ask him about it, but has been waiting for Sam to tell him on his own. Now, in the dark quiet of their bedroom, Sam says softly, "She cried."

Dean closes his eyes. He hears the bedsprings squeak and a second later, feels the edge of his bed dip under Sam's weight. When he opens his eyes, he sees Sam sitting there looking down at him, his eyes black pools in the moonlight. He sits up, drawing his knees up under the covers and folding his arms across them. "Sam," he says, trying to find the right words. "Sometimes for girls…it hurts the first time." He thinks, Dad should be telling you this. But he knows Sam would never talk about this with their dad.

"Yeah, I-I know. But it wasn't the first time," he says. "For her, I mean."

"Sammy—"

"It was after," Sam says and maneuvers his lanky body onto Dean's bed, drawing his own knees up to mirror Dean's posture. He meets Dean's eyes in the darkness. "She started crying right after…you know. I kept asking her if…if I'd hurt her. But she wouldn't tell me." He breathes out slowly, looking down at his hand as he picks at something on the left knee of his pajama pants. "She didn't say anything the whole time we were getting dressed. Then, when I walked her home, she said, 'I'm just like my mom.' That's all she said. When I asked her what she meant, she wouldn't tell me."

Dean closes his eyes again, his fingers digging into his blankets. "Tell me, Dean," he hears Sam say.

"Tell you what?" Dean asks as he opens his eyes.

"Tell me what she meant by that." Sam's looking at him so earnestly, Dean has to force himself not to look away.

"How the hell am I supposed to know?" he asks.

"Because," Sam says, shifting closer, folding his long legs Indian-style. Dean watches him toy with the hem of his sleep pants. When Sam looks up again, his hair has fallen into his eyes. "Because," he says again, "I remember. I remember when you asked her about her mom. She…she changed."

"Sam—"

"You know something, Dean," Sam insists. "I know you do. Please just tell me."

Dean concentrates on breathing as he looks at his brother. "It's just gossip, Sam," he finally says.

"What—" Sam says. "What kind of gossip?"

"The kind that says her mother sleeps around." Dean watches Sam's face drop, then tells him a lie. "Like I said, it's just gossip."

Sam nods, but Dean knows his brother doesn't believe him. "Jenny's not like that," Sam says.

"Okay."

"She's _not._"

"_Okay_."

But Sam's angry. He pushes back from Dean and stands up, glaring down at him. "Just because she wasn't a virgin, doesn't make her a slut."

Dean looks up at him. "I never said she was, Sam. Stop putting words in my mouth."

Sam's chest heaves with angry breaths, hands balled at his sides. But after a few moments, he starts to calm down. Dean just watches him in silence. "I'm sorry," Sam finally says.

"It's alright. Don't worry about it." Dean lowers his legs and lies back against his pillow. "Why don't we both try to get some sleep, huh?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "Okay. Goodnight."

"'Night." Dean watches Sam settle back into his bed, then turns to stare at the ceiling again.

"Dean?" Sam asks a minute later.

"Yeah?"

"If…" Sam says. "If there was something else, you'd tell me, right?"

Dean closes his eyes and takes a second to answer. "Go to sleep, Sammy."

*

"I've stopped seeing her," Dad tells him after Sam's gone into the 7-Eleven to get coffee for the three of them.

Dean looks over, sees Dad staring out the windshield, the glowing neon from the storefront accenting the angles of his face.

"Okay," he says.

*

Dean checks the box when Sam's in the shower, sees there are five condoms left. He thinks, Five more chances to get it right, and closes the drawer.

Sam comes in a minute later, wrapped in a towel, his wet hair curling around his ears. There's a puckered scar low on his left hip where he'd been thrown through a window by an angry spirit eight months before. Dean imagines Jenny tracing it with her fingertips as she asks Sam what happened. He imagines Sam telling her about the window, but leaving the spirit out.

*

Dad's gone again.

"Jenny's at her grandparents' place in Monroe for the weekend," Sam tells him. "I guess it's just the two of us."

So they stay in. They eat frozen pizza and watch movies through the fuzzy reception of their rabbit-eared TV.

And Dean tries not to feel like the consolation prize.

*

Sam refuses to go hunting with them after a blazing fight with Dad and Dad orders him not to leave the house. Of course, Dean knows he will. Knows where he'll go, too, because Sammy's world is small—even smaller than before, now that it's been reduced to the size of a sixteen-year-old girl.

He's sitting on the front steps, though, awash in the glow of the flickering porch light, when Dean and Dad pull into the driveway. When he looks up at them, Dean knows right away there's something wrong.

Dad gets out of the car and Dean watches Sam glare at him, sees the unsteadiness in the way Sam stands up, and knows what's going to happen.

"Sam!" he yells, jumping out of the car. He leaves the car door open as he starts towards Sam, sees Dad look sharply at him out of the corner of his eye. "Sammy," Dean says more calmly, keeping his eyes on his brother. "Don't do it."

But Sam doesn't even look at him, pushes off the stairs at a run and barrels headlong into Dad, taking him by surprise. Dad stumbles, falls backward, lands with a heavy thud on the ground, his breath leaving his lungs in a sudden rush as Sam falls on top of him.

"I hate you!" Sam's screaming over and over, his face contorted in rage in a way Dean's never seen before. "How could you?" He's pounding Dad's chest with his fists. And Dad…Dad's just lying there.

Dean drags his brother off, gripping his arms tightly as he struggles. "Sam, knock it off!" he says firmly, right behind Sam's left ear. He can feel the anger pulsing through Sam, the tension in his muscles. Feels the swell of Sam's labored breaths, his back pressed against Dean's chest. He watches Dad slowly stand up, sees his dark eyes catch his own for a moment before flicking to Sam's face.

"Sam…" Dad begins, and the sadness in that one syllable twists in Dean's belly.

"Jenny broke up with me," Sam says hoarsely, and sags inside Dean's grip.

Dean closes his eyes, hears Dad say, "I'm sorry, son."

Sam shakes off Dean's hands and Dean opens his eyes, sees Sam standing a step away, looking at him with a question in his eyes. He knows what Sam's asking him, but he can't answer.

"You knew," Sam says softly, lips trembling. Dean sees the betrayal bleed into his brother's eyes and feels something tear inside his chest.

"Sam…" he says weakly. It's all he can manage.

Sam shakes his head and brushes past him. He reaches out, his fingers sliding down Sam's arm until they lock around his wrist.

He doesn't expect it—the sudden-sharp impact of Sam's fist against his face. His fingers slip from Sam's wrist as he stumbles a step. He opens his mouth to speak, but Sam beats him to it.

"You lied to me," he says, nostrils flaring, eyes welling with angry tears.

Dean wants to tell him he didn't lie; he just didn't tell him everything. There's a difference. But it doesn't matter now.

Sam runs into the house and the sound of the bedroom door slamming is loud, even from outside.

"This is my fault," Dad says.

And Dean thinks, Yeah. It is. But he doesn't say it because it's not the whole truth. Because it's his fault, too. And Laura Peavy's. And Jenny's, just a little.

But most of all, Dean realizes, it's the fault of whatever killed Mom all those years ago. Because if it wasn't for that, Sammy wouldn't be here right now, in this particular place, searching for normal beneath a layer of chaos and finding it doesn't exist. Not for him. Not for any of them.

It always comes back to that.

*

The bruise on Dean's cheek has turned yellow around the edges. Dad slams the trunk and tosses him the keys. There are two months left on the lease, but it's moving day.

Sam's in the backseat, scrunched against the door, when Dean slides in behind the wheel. Dad slides in beside him and settles in, resting his head along the back of the seat and tugging the brim of his ball cap down over his eyes.

Dean fits the key in the ignition and turns it, the Impala's heavy engine rumbling reassuringly to life. He turns in his seat to look out the back window and catches Sam's eyes. But instead of looking away, like he's been doing constantly for the last four days, he holds Dean's gaze. And he smiles just a little.

Turning back to the front, Dean throws the car into drive and slams his foot down on the gas.

The tires squeal. And Dean smiles.

The End

***

_Reviews are always very much appreciated. Thank you!_


End file.
